


Attack of the Blatherskites

by viscidium



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel 616, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Awkward Peter Parker, Canon-Typical Violence, Deadpool POV, Deadpool Thought Boxes, Deadpool being Deadpool, Fluff and Humor, Funny, If You Squint - Freeform, Infinity War spoilers, Loki - Freeform, M/M, Meet-Cute, Neighbors, One Shot, Short & Sweet, Tumblr Memes, hawkeye is a Bro, he's mentioned like every chapter, intellectual!, lots of vines, so sad alexa play despacito, ugh my mind
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-06-09 19:44:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15274869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viscidium/pseuds/viscidium
Summary: What does Deadpool do when not stalking his bro Spider-man? Why, avoiding a Peter Parker-shaped shadow, of course.In which an annoying kid moves in down the hall from Wade and Wade cannot, for the life of him, figure out why he’s suddenly invaded his life.





	Attack of the Blatherskites

**Author's Note:**

> this heaping pile of shit is thanks to my insomnia. you have been warned.

 

Deadpool has a lot of time on his hands.

And time, he quickly realizes somewhere around 7:48 AM one Saturday in October, is fucking _overrated_. Like, _Blue Valentine_ or _Drive_ level overrated.

Don’t get him wrong; Ryan Gosling is hot and okay, maybe he wants to do body shots off those abs, but the dude has less dialogue than Mr. Bean playing an introverted mime with bronchitis in _Drive_. And that’s no reason to make _anyone_ sit through that borderline _painful_ ukulele scene in _Blue I-don’t-give-a-fuck Valentine_.

{It was endearing!}

[Yeah, sure. Borderline creepy, more like. The only good parts in _Drive_ were when they killed someone off. Too much staring. Like, did I wake up in the wrong universe and Ryan Gosling’s now in _Twilight_?]

{Oooooh _burn_!}

He has _way_ too much time. And what does idle time breed? (If you answered tentacle porn, you’re _tentically_ correct.)

{Now THAT was a fun Sunday night!}

[PLEASE. No puns.]

Idle time breeds bad decisions, bad thoughts; just a whole Noah’s ark of bad things that probably shouldn’t be done in the presence of children. (Don’t try at home, kids!) Idle time is an ulcer, a sickness just beneath his skin that he can’t rid himself of, no matter how much he itches and scratches at it. Idle time is an old lady probing at his exposed brain with her cane and screaming at him to unload the dishwasher.

[Gah, that hag was the worst. landlady. _ever_.]

Idle time is sitting through _The Emoji Movie_ , taking a shot every time you lose another brain cell.

{Call up the EMTs, we gettin’ lit tonight bois!}

Idle time is a pity party in a public bathroom, and the only person invited is a very bored and horny and manic-depressive Deadpool.

{This is so sad Alexa play Despacito.}

[LIKE IF YOU CRIED.]

Deadpool huffs a sigh, sinking further into the plaid of his sofa in the hopes he might actually suffocate. He’s been lying here so long his leg has a better chance of falling asleep than he does. He can’t remember the last time he slept, actually. Last Friday? Two weeks ago when he was shot in the head by Dr. Doom?

[You slept three days ago when you *COUGH* masturbated so many times in a row your body literally shut down.]

{Ha! We broke our record. 34 times, bitchezzzz!!}

“It was thirty-five,” Deadpool croaks out, face in cushion.

[You can count?]

{By my calculations, I believe that was a roast.}

Deadpool rolls over so he’s on his side, cheek cradled in his open palm. There are angry, red squiggly lines tattooed on his eyeballs and they swim before and around him like those wacky-waving-inflatable-arm-flailing-tube-men. He squints at the fresh bullet hole in the opposite wall of his living room. Brain matter and blood and the stench of both stain the yellowing wallpaper. Killing himself for the fourth time in the last twenty-four hours proved unsuccessful yet again. Damn MK47’s and their family-friendly agenda.

[None of that made sense. What tube men...?]

{He means those red guys in front of car washes. I just googled it.}

[Is he high?]

“I don’t believe so,” Deadpool replies. “Last I checked, we can’t get high.”

{Speak for yourself, man.}

“We are the same person.”

{LALALA I CAN’T HEAR YOU!!}

“Tough crowd.”

A sigh worms its way out of Deadpool. He hasn’t bothered getting up from the couch since the last time he had to piss. Which, according to his astute observations and his _Adventure Time_ watch, was probably like twenty minutes ago. Small bladder and all that jazz. He wouldn’t normally bother with such niceties such as peeing in a respectable place (see: toilet, sink, Weasel’s Timbs), but, well, he doesn’t think the nice Craigslist person he’s selling this couch to would appreciate Deadpool jizz, blood, _and_ pee on their respectable living room sofa. He should really just burn the thing. All it does is drain the energy out of him every time he looks at it, like some kind of black hole or void out in space. After all, it’s plaid. And he _hates_ plaid.

{*Shivers*}

“You don’t have a body to shiver,” Deadpool points out sagely. If Yellow had a body, he imagines this is the place where he gets smacked across the face.

{I can dream, Harold!}

[Oh god, was that an ASDF reference?]

{Of course. Only the best references here.}

[I wish I could throw up. Hey Wade, throw up for me.]

“Nah, did that earlier today, but thanks.”

[Poo.]

 _Criminal Minds_ is playing softly on the TV in the corner. Every time he glances over there, another body is being brutally attacked by a different breed of Brooding Misunderstood White Guy. He’d shut it off and keep the general debauchery at a reasonable level, but Deadpool is sad, and the sigh that slips past his lips sounds a lot more self-depreciative than he intends. It sounds like an angsty teen girl after her first breakup. He even _looks_ like he’s been dumped: there are empty beer cans littering the floor, an empty pizza box peeking out from under the couch, and Deadpool’s been pity-partying since—

Well, Since.

{Yeah. Since.}

[Since your boyfriend went MIA and left without a goodbye.]

{SHHHHH. I thought we weren’t talking about that!}

[We’re his brain. We can do what we want.]

Of course they can. The voices don’t stop even if he asks nicely. Which he has. Several times. He’s even given White dating advice.

[You call THAT dating advice? Where’d you even get experience? Nobody likes your ugly mug.]

{I second that. You cheatin’ on me, Wadey?}

Deadpool huffs a laugh. “Uh-huh, sure. I picked up a chick from Walgreens last week ‘nd we boned in the freezer section. It put Ian Gallagher to shame.”

[Subtle reference there, chief.]

{I miss innocent Ian Gallagher! He was so cute. Also, #teamGallavich all the way.}

[#teamCap]

{How disappointing. OF COURSE you’d be team Cap, White. You are a disgusting person, and I’m ashamed to be related to you. You took ONE Criminal Justice course and now you think you’re better than us. #teamIronYouUnculturedSwine}

[...]

“Hey, I’ve never taken a Criminal Justice course,” Deadpool tries lamely. His head is hurting. Lack of sleep, lack of a sustainable diet. He hasn’t touched a vegetable that hasn’t been on a pizza or in a taco in around _never_. Fuck broccoli, he’s got immortality.

[ _You_ didn’t. We have lives of our own, you know.]

Ah yes. Of course.

The clock to his right hasn’t worked since January, but Deadpool still finds himself looking over at it with a frown. He really needs to change the batteries. It’s too bad he doesn’t populate the grocery store like a rational human being. Really depends which universe it is. This is Earth-616, right?

He hasn’t left his apartment in nearly a week. Which is a little concerning, he ponders, turning his attention back to the bright TV screen. But eh, who cares. Nobody’s missing him while ol’ Pool takes a vacation.

{More like retirement. Vacations don’t generally last for 2 months.}

[They could. Though, at that point, it makes you wonder if it’s a vacation or an escape from one’s problems. Which is exactly what Wade is doing right now, in case the reader is too dense to catch my drift. Pick up what I’m laying down. Smell the roses, all that shit.]

{Is it escaping problems or just laziness? Mid-life crisis? That’s the real question.}

Deadpool closes his eyes. The red tube men do the Harlem Shake in the shade behind his eyelids.

Then a knock.

He half believes it’s just audio from the TV. He doesn’t bother to open an eye.

{Probably my Taylor Swift album. Hope the delivery guy doesn’t try opening the door or we’ll have to shoot him.}

[I seriously doubt that. Nobody comes to visit us, even hot delivery men. This is _Deadpool_ we’re talking about. Everyone goes running and screaming in the opposite direction. Even the Zodiac Killer Ted Cruz. Man, that was a good Halloween.]

{Word.}

The knock comes again, much louder this time. Deadpool cracks an eye open. Who in the motherfucking cum biscuits? He springs from the sofa with energy that’s pulled from his ass. Because honestly, who the hell could that be? It’s seven in the morning, and he’s Wade Wilson, your resident psychopath.

{7 AM, a.k.a. murdering hours.}

Deadpool shuffles to the door cautiously, thumbing the pistol in his left holster. There’s something almost scary about someone having the balls to visit Castel del Deadpool. That either means it’s a poor, unfortunate soul in the wrong place at the wrong time, or it’s Loki, returning his booty call.

That or someone heavily armed to kill, abduct, and experiment on him.

[What’s behind curtain 3?]

{Torture, torture, and oh! more torture!}

In all three cases, someone dies, and he isn’t in the mood for that currently. Ask tomorrow, maybe. Who wouldn’t be up for a brutal killing this Sunday?

However, when Deadpool fumbles his way to the door with his pistol in one hand and a butter knife in the other and looks through the peep-hole, it pleasantly surprises him to find _no one there_.

{Is that kid from apartment #56 doorbell-ditching us again?}

[Better not. We gave him a wedgie to put Thanos to dust last time he tried.]

{I see what you did there, and I must say, I am seriously plotting your murder as we speak.}

[Bite me.]

{I wasn’t aware you were into that, White.}

[You watched _50 Shades of Grey_ with me.]

{That vile movie is a disgrace to the BDSM community and nothing you say will convince me otherwise.}

[Well, can’t argue there. Still, I’m into a light choking as much as the next guy. Aren’t we all? Marvel seems to like it, judging by their track record and Loki’s *death*. BTW, he ain’t dead. Stay strong, Loki stans.]

“Can you both _please_ shut up for just two seconds so I can figure out if I’m about to be bombed in my own fucking apartment,” Deadpool grumbles.

[Who pissed in his cereal?]

{We did. Wait ew that’s gross. Ignore me.}

“Believe me; we’re trying.” He opens the door a sliver, keeping the chain lock in place as a flimsy precautionary method. Far as he knows, no comic hero’s been killed or stuffed in a fridge (we’re looking at you, Green Lantern) if he kept the door locked.

The empty hallway gapes before him, drawing a hissed cuss from Deadpool as the boxes begin to discuss the pros and cons of keeping a body in an industrial grade refrigerator. Deadpool ignores them in favor of stepping out into the hall, butter knife and pistol in check. No terrified lamb or Evil Norse God materializes on the pistol side. The butter knife fairs better. Down at the far end of the hall, near the window overlooking the most pathetic courtyard Deadpool’s ever seen, is a young man.

A young man looking back and shitting himself.

[This the fucker that doorbell-ditched us?]

{Hey, he looks kinda cute from this distance.}

[If you’re into fourteen-year-olds.]

Deadpool approaches slowly. The kid in question does this kind of panicked, deer-in-the-headlights, I’ve-just-pooped-my-pants look, pawing at his door handle like it’s going to save him. According to Deadpool’s spicy inductive reasoning skills, the kid was in the middle of opening his door. Unfortunate for him, he didn’t quite get that far.

“Can I help you?” Deadpool barks with a scowl. The kid blinks. He’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt from one of those hipster online stores Deadpool can’t ever get discounts at, his bare toes peeking out from under a pair of plaid (PLAID) pajama bottoms.

{Just HAD to be plaid, huh.}

[What’s the writer’s deal with plaid?]

“Yes, actually,” Plaid Pants says, his voice quivering slightly. He tacks a smile on the end as if it can cover how nervous he is. An afterthought. Something most people don’t bother doing because nobody smiles at Deadpool anyway.

[Well, we _are_ a tenured assassin that kills people for money.]

{ _USED_ to. We don't kill anymore!}

[Tell that to _Mario Kart_ motherfucker.]

Deadpool leans against the wall and observes Plaid Pants. Plaid Pants, to his credit, only appears mildly alarmed at the prospect of a masked and deadly mercenary looking at him like fresh meat. At least he’s stopped fiddling with the door handle like Ferris Bueller’s Day Off Cocaine. Now he’s just traded the chipped brass for the bottom of his sweatshirt.

“So, you here to sell Girl Scout cookies?” Deadpool calls.

[Wow. Smooth.]

{That reply was dryer than our DM’s.}

[You sound like a white chick.]

{Better than sandpaper, eh Sandman?}

[What does that even _mean?_ ]

{I swear that Sandman song is in like every edit or AMV ever.}

“Shut up,” Deadpool hisses, turning his head to glare at a person that isn’t there.

Plaid Pants clears his throat down the hall. “I, uh, I didn’t think anyone was home,” he grimaces in sympathy, regret, whatever, rubbing the back of his neck like the awkward teenager he looks to be. “I knocked, and no one answered, so,” he adds softly, shrugging.

“It’s seven in the morning,” Deadpool deadpans.

{Haha, DEADpool DEADpans. It’s funny because we’re pansexual. Now we just need a kiddy pool. How many puns can we put in one chapter challenge 2k18.}

Plaid Pants’ eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling, his expression faltering. “Oh, um—”

“And you didn’t bring cookies,” Deadpool adds, shaking his head in disappointment. “'Tis a shame, Master Wayne. Would’ve expected more from you. Bee-tee-dubs, Thin Mints are my favorite flavor, Girl Scout.”

Deadpool could swear an actual question mark appears above the kid’s head. “Excuse me?”

“Yes, excuse you,” Deadpool huffs, placing his butter-knifed hand on a hip and drawing the kid’s attention to the fact that he’s very much armed and ready to fucking tango (Plaid Pants frowns a bit. Cute.), “can’t a guy catch a break these days? It’s like, the fourth of July, dude, what the fuck.”

“It’s October.”

Deadpool waves his pistol around. The kid reaches for his door handle again. “It’s the fourth _someplace_ , migo.”

[Pretty sure that’s not how it works.]

{Don’t kill the moment. This is the longest anyone’s talked to us in months!}

[Wade’s killing the moment all on his own. Look, the kid’s pouting now.]

{No, that’s the Ew-I-Just-Stepped-in-Shit face.}

Plaid Pants doesn’t spare a second to process Deadpool’s last comment. “Oh, right, um, sorry about that,” he apologizes quietly, dipping his head.

{He looks scared. Or constipated. I can’t tell.}

[Wouldn’t blame him for either.]

{ _Sponsored by MiraLax_.}

Deadpool can feel the anxiety radiating off the kid in waves. He makes the professional decision of holstering his pistol and tucking the butter knife into his tactical belt. The kid couldn’t pose a threat if he wanted to; he looks like he hasn’t had a substantial meal his entire teenage career and there are violet smudges under his tired eyes. Still, his brows furrow at Deadpool’s gesture.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Plaid Pants explains. “I kind of get lost in my head and forget not everyone is awake at all hours of the night.” He laughs something bitter, rubbing his arm through his Thrasher sweatshirt. “I just moved in, so I wanted to meet my, uh, neighbors.” He gives Deadpool a curious look. “I didn’t expect to meet... you.”

“Wow,” Deadpool drawls, “didn’t see that one coming. And don’t worry, kid. No one expects nor wants to see me.”

{Sad truth.}

[Don’t blame ‘em.]

“Uhm, well, uh—”

“How come you aren’t peeing your pants?” Deadpool interrupts, trucking right over any lies the guy could’ve concocted.

Step one: confront the lies.

{Check.}

Plaid Pants blinks. “Uh, sorry?” he squeaks.

Deadpool puffs a breath like the most put-upon person in history. “You,” he jabs a finger in the kid’s direction, directly where he assumes a nipple would be, “should be pissing right now. You know who I am, right?”

{Everyone does. Or everyone _should_.}

[Mayhaps this fellow was dropped on his head as a child and doesn’t realize the danger he’s in.]

“You’re Deadpool,” the kid nods slowly. If Deadpool were sane, he’d think that was a tiny smile sitting on his lips. “Am I _supposed_ to be scared of you? I don’t have any valuables for you to steal—if you do that kind of thing—and there’s almost no point in killing me because I have no life insurance. Still waiting for an old, rich guy with declining health to wed.”

Deadpool chokes on a laugh, surprising himself.

[What the—]

{I like him!}

“Bro, me too. But I’m rich, so the money doesn’t matter. And I’m a pretty committed lover, so not declining health either. Actually, just sign me up for an old dude I can peg and whip in bed and I’m good. Really, just anyone. Age doesn’t matter. Except for kids, that’s just gross.”

Plaid Pants reels back slightly. “Uh,” he says eloquently.

[TMI, dude.]

{Just great. Now you’re scaring him for entirely different reasons.}

“Anyways,” Deadpool carols, sweeping his arm out in front of him to encompass the entirety of the hall. “This is real, this is me,” he sings, quoting the great Demi Lovato, then immediately crosses his arms over his chest. “Here I am, your friendly neighborhood Deadpool. Now that we’ve met, I wouldn’t suggest coming anywhere near me again.”

“Friendly neighborhood Deadpool,” the kid echoes, staring blankly at the dust particles floating in the air.

“Someone’s gotta take over for Spidey while he’s AWOL,” he chirps with false cheer, though he could swear his stomach drops out his ass.

[Oh here we go again.]

{*Sad Face*}

Plaid Pants’ eyes bulge out of his head. It’s almost comical, and in any other situation, Deadpool would’ve laughed. If, you know, his heart wasn’t plummeting to the bottom of his stomach like a ball of unease and some other icky feeling that feels ghostly similar to grief.

{Is this Loss?}

[I think we’ve overstayed our welcome. Not that we were ever welcome or anything.]

Deadpool spins on his heel, suddenly intent on biting the barrel of his pistol and eating the following bullet for breakfast. Add some syrup, almost good as pancakes.

[Don’t delude yourself, Wade.]

He’s about to snap the door shut again and lock all five deadbolts when the kid’s voice rings out a high-pitched, “I’M PETER-MAN!”

Deadpool pops his head around his door. "Come again?"

Plaid Pants is there, just outside his door, looking endearingly as confused as Deadpool is.

 _“Frick,”_ the kid whispers to himself. “I-I’m Peter,” he tries again, lifting his head to jut his chin out defiantly.

Then, just as quickly as he was there, he’s gone again. He takes off at break-neck speed down the hall and back to his apartment. Deadpool stares holes through the spot of dirty carpet the kid— _Peter_ , was just standing.

“Frick,” he whispers back to empty air.

  

**Author's Note:**

> hey thanks for reading till the end! leave a kudo or comment telling me how i've done :-)  
> i've never published anything for Deadpool so uhhhhh idk what to think about this


End file.
